The Walkers huddle around the kitchen table, speechless. We’re trying to be quiet because Bex is in the other room flipping through magazines and watching videos on the Internet, and we don’t want her to hear our conversation. Every couple of minutes she breaks into a cackle and shouts for me to come see what she’s found. I’ve been ignoring her. What happened today is more important than a guy who dresses as Batman and drives his kids to school. It has to be discussed even if only in whispers.
“Are you sure?” my father asks.
I nod. “He knows.”
“We need to leave tonight,” he cries, turning to my mother with a pleading face.
“We can’t. Not yet. He’s got a driver’s license and some other things we’ll need to get Mom out of the Zone. He called it payment for meeting with the prince and for keeping the governor busy while he arrested half the school.”
“You helped him with that?” my father says.
“I didn’t think I had much of a choice. We need what he’s offering.”
“Where did he get my photograph for a driver’s license?” my mother muses.
“He’s watching us,” my father says, shaking his head in disgust.
We sit quietly, unsure of whether to be happy or frantic. Only the ticking of the cat clock on the wall can be heard. I watch its tail swing back and forth, its big insane eyes staring down at us like we’re the crazy ones.
“I think he’s sincere,” I say.
“There’s nothing sincere about that man,” my father growls.
“Why take the effort to make those things look real if he isn’t going to give them to us? He doesn’t need them to get me to do what he wants. He knows about us,” I argue.
“Are you thinking this guy is just being nice?” my mother asks.
“I don’t know. Nothing he does makes sense until it does. When I walked out of school today, no one paid any attention to me. People couldn’t have cared less. He said he would make himself the target and he did. He didn’t have to do it.”
“Don’t trust him,” my father warns.
“All right, Mr. Sunshine,” I groan, then turn to my mother. “Now we just have to find your family, and we can go.”
My mother smiles weakly.
Bex rushes into the room. “Feed me!”
We order more Chinese, but I’m too amped up to eat. Mom and Dad are the same, picking at their food and struggling to listen to Bex’s endless chatter about talking-baby videos and Saturday Night Live clips.
That night, I can’t sleep. I’m too excited, almost giddy with anticipation. We might actually get out of this town and start over somewhere new. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but I can’t help myself. It’s been a long time since I felt like anything good could happen to people like us.
Chapter Fifteen
My alarm goes off at five thirty. When I roll over, I find Bex is gone. I snatch my phone and find out why.
TAMMY CALLED. BEGGED ME 2 COME HOME.
RUSSELL IS STILL IN JAIL.
SAYS THINGS WILL B DIFFERENT.
GOTTA LET HER TRY.
SEE U AT THE RIOT.
I leap out of bed, hoping my father can rush over now and bring her back, but the cops are already in our living room, waiting for me to get ready.
“I’ll go by once we’ve dropped you off,” my father promises.
By six fifteen we’re out on the streets, taking a completely different route from yesterday. Mrs. Novakova didn’t catch us, and neither did the street gang from yesterday, so any doubt I had that she was the one who called them is now gone. The walk is calm and uneventful until we turn the corner near the school. There stand a thousand people—men, women, children, the elderly—arm in arm, and every one of them is wearing a Niner T-shirt. My father radios to the precinct, and we’re told to hang back, that cars are already on the way. My father tells them to forget the cars and send the Marines. Within seconds there are more cops around me than I have ever seen. Officers charge down the street in riot gear and helmets. Every single one of them has a black baton in his or her hand. Someone listened to my dad and brought Guardsmen with them. Coney Island is going to war.
We watch from afar as an officer takes out his megaphone and approaches the human blockade.
“I’m only going to say this once,” he barks. “This rally does not have a permit. You will disperse right now or you will be arrested.”
The crowd is not intimidated. They don’t budge an inch, so the officer gives an order to his colleagues and they don facemasks and goggles.
“Holy crap,” my father mutters, and he pushes us back.
“What’s happening?”
“They’re going to tear-gas them,” he says.
We run, dodging the second wave of cops rushing at us from the opposite direction. Like the others, they’re wearing facemasks, but they also have canisters strapped on their backs with long rubber hoses attached. They step up to the crowd and aim. Pop! A silver capsule blasts out of the tip and lands in the center of the crowd. White smoke erupts from it and rises into the sky. The protestors do their best to hold their ground, but stubbornness is no match for tear gas. Within seconds they are running amok, trying to escape the ghostly fog that burns their eyes and noses. Others fall to the ground, choking and sobbing. Pop! Pop! Pop! Three more canisters land at their feet.